


Namesake

by sandwastesinthevoidofmychest



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Married Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Feels, Original Character(s), POV Greg Lestrade, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, do not copy to another site, snippets of life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/pseuds/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest
Summary: A series of vignettes spanning both Mycroft and Greg's lives, demonstrating their connection with the meaning of their names.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 22
Kudos: 99





	1. Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first thing I've completed since mid-July. I've spent so long on it, but over the last few months I've absolutely hated everything I've written with a passion. I'm nervous about this one, but I eventually have to post something again, right? 
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy <3
> 
> Content warning for: period-typical homophobia, internalised homophobia, bullying, (almost) drowning, referenced shooting, and Sherlock is *very* not good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's chapter.

Name: Mycroft

Origin: English

The name Mycroft means _By The Stream, Small Field_ and is of English origin.

* * *

The water flows, slowly and evenly. It’s constant, something that he can always rely on.

Ever since he was a young boy, Mycroft had found comfort by the water.

He had not been lucky enough to grow up by the seaside, but the summer he spent in Brittany with his grandparents at age eight always comes to the forefront of his mind’s eye.

He’d spent every day at the beach, dwarfed by huge cliffs, mesmerised by the sea.

No one bothered him. It was bliss.

No bullies taunting him about his weight, no one to tell him how ugly his freckles were. They covered every inch of bare skin now and Mycroft couldn’t care less, so what if he’d gotten sunburnt one too many times? He was free.

When he returned to England, a baby brother was waiting to meet him.

That summer was the last memory of freedom Mycroft had had.

From there on, he was Sherlock’s guardian; he was a grown up now.

There was a stream near the edge of their estate.

It was Mycroft’s escape.

In a world full of bullies, distant parents, and Sherlock, Mycroft never managed to spend as much time there as he would have liked.

One of the last times he visited it Sherlock had pushed him in and ran off.

It was no longer a safe space, that small secret he cherished was no more.

Private school was a horror.

There had been nowhere to escape.

At every corner there were boys who beat him, who taunted him about his weight, that told him hewas ugly, that no one would ever be his friend.

Mycroft would imagine he was free, by a stream in a forest somewhere far away. Sometimes he wouldn’t even be alone, sometimes he dreamt he had a friend.

Kind smile and dark, gentle eyes.

Someone who would understand him, someone who would sit by the stream with him in silence.

In Cambridge, Mycroft had spent what little free time he had by the river Cam.

On the warmer days, Mycroft would bring a picnic blanket and a book, but would end up fascinated by the punters; the steady flow of people.

Laughter and happiness that he’d never experienced echoing in the breeze.

His life consisted of study and an underlying terror.

He knew he was gay now, he was certain of it.

The boy in his dreams grew with him, and Mycroft kept him safe inside.

But daily papers reported arrests on immorality charges.

What Mycroft was was illegal. What he felt wasn’t allowed.

Perhaps he could be sitting by the river with a handsome classmate; the shy, brown haired Theodore from the Classics course he would sit in on. They’d talked, Mycroft had enjoyed their conversation, had enjoyed how he felt, how he saw himself reflected in those wonderful green eyes...but he couldn’t.

The government would never allow him enter their ranks if they even suspected. Not to mention the mark it would leave on the family name.

So Mycroft, being as diligent as always, would never allow any evidence to exist.

He would sit by the river and watch life pass him by; a life that he was not living.

The first time Mycroft is shot, he’s undercover.

Up until this second, he’d excelled in every aspect of fieldwork.

He’d been on hundreds of missions, _succeeded_ in all of them.

The bullet has most likely punctured a lung, he thinks as he falls to the ground. He’s in a crowded Old Town Square in Prague, and as the world around him goes blurry, he can hear screams.

Waking is painful, breathing is difficult and for a brief second he resents his shooter for their horrific aim. His hospital room is too bright, and he struggles to acclimatise to his surroundings.

The one comfort he has is that he can see Vltava river from his bed.

No one is with him, or waiting for him to wake up and Mycroft admonishes himself for being disappointed at that fact.

He reminds himself that he has nobody and that’s his own fault.

He closes his eyes again, measuring how bad the pain to breath ratio is for him.

Survivable.

Mycroft is hesitant to press the call button for a nurse, once they know he’s awake someone from MI6 will be in to fire him.

He stares out the window again, watching the steady progression of boats along the river, wishing that he was on one to escape from what his life has become.

To Mycroft’s utter shock, he is not fired. He gets the promotion of a lifetime; a whole position tailored just to him.

He’s given a month’s leave before he starts his new role.  
Partially to continue his recovery, partially to sort out any issues in his personal life.

Despite a brother who is a drug addict and only responds to Mycroft with contempt, and Mycroft’s own overwhelming loneliness, there is nothing to ‘sort out’.

His life has always revolved around his work, and it will continue to do so.

He takes a train up to Edinburgh. He’s not sure why he picked Edinburgh of all places, but he books himself into a suite for the month.

He walks along the Dean River daily, gets access to the private gardens across from St Bernard’s Well. It takes him all of three days to leave the hotel to move into a flat in Dean Village. It’s small and cramped, crumbling paint and old creaks. But there’s a window seat that looks out directly on the river.

Mycroft spends his evenings there, perfecting his tea and listening to music. On the days the rain pours down, he curls up with a book and sits in the window.

He knows the position he’ll be entering into will not allow much personal time.

It’s something he welcomes.

It will be a distraction from the loneliness, it will his chance to never become bored.

On a particularly horrific day a week away from his return to London, when even the electricity has gone out, Mycroft calls Sherlock.

He doesn’t answer.

Mycroft is introduced to Anthea on his first day of the job.

She’s been an agent for ten years, and apparently she jumped at the chance to work for Mycroft.

She grins at him as he shakes her hand, her eyes dark and full of knowing.  
Mycroft is convinced she sees through him in an instant.

It becomes clear immediately that Anthea is so much more than an employee. He’d hesitated in referring to her as a friend until she told him in no uncertain terms that that is exactly what she is.

She makes sure he doesn’t spend his life at his desk. She keeps tabs on Sherlock, she offers her opinions on Mycroft’s meetings.

She knows all his secrets, and Mycroft continues to be astounded by how well they get along, at the fact she doesn’t leave.

Anthea is the one who points out Mycroft’s affinity for the water, or, as she points out; rivers and streams.

“You have eyes like the sea, but I’ve never seen you have the peace by the sea that you gain watching rivers flow.” Anthea murmurs beside him, when she notices him staring out the plane window down onto the choppy sea. It takes him completely off-guard.

Mycroft thinks about it for a few minutes in silence, then looks to Anthea, “Perhaps.” He manages, staring down at his hands. “The steady ebb and flow, the orderly direction of it all.”

Anthea hums in understanding, placing her hand over his own.

Mycroft had never liked the Thames.

It’s polluted and discoloured, and horribly pungent on warm days.

But often it’s the only source of water that he can get time to visit. It was an added bonus that it spans throughout London; he never had to travel too far.

So perhaps it was a coincidence that the warehouse he had the newly appointed detective inspector Gregory Lestrade taken to was on the edge of the Thames, that day _flooded_ by the Thames.

Mycroft never believed in coincidences, the universe was rarely so lazy.

But there he was, right in front of Mycroft, exhausted and drenched. The boy from his dreams, now slightly older than himself. 

Eyes a warm chocolate brown that Mycroft would gladly get lost in. Silver hair that needed an appointment with a barber, yet was the perfect length to run his fingers through.

And that smile. Christ, Mycroft was done for the second he realised that this man had seen through his act immediately, that he wasn’t scared of him, just amused and curious.

“Dinner?” Mycroft whispers, hope evident in his voice.

A rueful smile in response, glimmering eyes. “Only if you buy me a new pair of shoes.”

“That can be easily arranged.”

Maybe the Thames wasn’t so bad after all.

Mycroft finds adjusting his life, especially his work to accommodate a partner surprisingly easy.

Coming to terms with the fact he is no longer alone is more difficult.

Waking up beside Greg is magical. Finding those familiar chocolate eyes watching him sends warmth and happiness through his body.

He smiles more now, it’s easier to get through the day when he knows he’ll be seeing Greg or talking to him at some point.

It’s true that they’re both workaholics, but what they have together _works_.

The thing that Mycroft finds hardest, though, is having someone to sit beside him by Sherlock’s hospital bed.

He’s so used to being there alone, spending sleepless nights watching his brother unconscious, only to be treated with disdain when Sherlock does open his eyes.

It’s different with Greg. Everything is.

Greg cares so deeply about so many, and thankfully Sherlock is one of them.

The fact that Sherlock tolerates Greg in turn is also vastly comforting.

Sherlock may ignore Mycroft upon waking, but he’s more likely to speak to Greg.

After a particularly difficult visit, Greg finds Mycroft near the remembrance garden, staring at a fountain and steadily smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes.

Greg doesn’t mention Mycroft’s eight months of successfully quitting cigarettes, instead he holds him. Mycroft immediately feels some of the tension disappear from his body at Greg’s warmth and closeness. He’s safe with Greg.

“It’ll be alright.” Greg whispers close to his ear. “It always is.”

“I love you.” Is all Mycroft can manage to say.

The pond in St James’s Park is too static for Mycroft’s liking.

There’s no steady flow, no distinct direction and purpose, nothing calming about it.

It houses swans, ducks, and plenty of angry seagulls.

He finds calm in Gregory’s smile, finds warmth in Greg’s gaze.

They meet here often, during the few minutes they both can wrangle from busy schedules to share a pastry and two cups of the finest coffees they can find within walking distance.

They sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing warmth and almost touches.

“I’ve been made DCI.” Greg’s voice is calm, but Mycroft can still hear the underlying disbelief.

It’s not a surprise to Mycroft. Gregory is an impeccable police officer, even without Sherlock’s aid.

He’s been heading for a promotion for a long time.

Mycroft can’t help but smile, eyes lingering on Greg’s face. He has every millimetre of skin memorised and catalogued, knows what Greg’s laughter lines look like when he wakes up beside him, when he wakes up to Greg watching him.

“You thoroughly deserve it, Gregory. May I whisk you away for a few days to celebrate?”

“You can do whatever you want with me.” Greg answers, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

Mycroft has to look back at the lake to ensure all the love he has for this man doesn’t swallow him whole.

Mycroft has had it with the Thames.

He comes to this conclusion the millisecond before he hits the odious water. The spot on his arm where Sherlock had pushed him over the embankment aches distantly.

He closes his eyes and tries to hold his breath, but he knows a few seconds too late that he’s inhaled a mouthful of water before he surfaces, ears ringing.

His clothes are too heavy, his woollen coat feels like it’s dragging him down. Moving to try free himself from it makes him struggle more, the chill of a London winter night does nothing to help.

He hears shouting, what could be his name, but it sounds so far away.

Even with his fascination with water, Mycroft was never a strong swimmer. After all, his fascination is with streams and rivers, places where he never intended to enter the water.

It seems odd to think that mudlarkers find roman coins in this river, odder still that Mycroft Holmes will die here.

The lights are too bright, his whole body aches. There’s a solid heat at his side and he manages to battle against the light long enough to find the source. His throat feels like a chainsaw, it seems unthinkable that he’ll be able to breathe painlessly again.

He can tell he’s in a private hospital room, there’s two beds but the heat against his side is Greg curled up beside him. His breathing is shallow in sleep, head against Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft’s heart monitor spikes the second he realises that Greg is in a hospital gown too.

Greg waking and a nurse sprinting into the room happen at the same second.

The nurse looks at them both and then fixes a half-hearted glare at Greg. “Mister Lestrade, what have I told you about leaving your own bed?”

“M’fine.” Greg murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “I’m not the one who swallowed most of the Thames.” Greg caresses his cheek. “Glad you’re back with me, darlin’.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t pick up hypothermia.” The nurse grumbles, Mycroft can sense the teasing in her voice. Obviously her and Greg have been talking.

How long has he been out?

“Now, Mister Holmes, I just need to do a little check up.”

Greg holds his hand all the while.

When they’re alone again, Mycroft sends Greg a questioning glance. “What-“ His voice is barely a whisper, the pain is akin to that of tonsillitis.

“Jumped in right after you, didn’t I?” Greg smiles easily.

Mycroft is about to protest, but Greg kisses him instead. It lingers, and Mycroft feels tears prick his eyes.

“Yes, darlin’. The answer is yes.” Greg says softly.

Mycroft stares at him in complete confusion until Greg shifts to pick something off the bedside locker. Greg holds a water-damaged ring box in his hand.

“They pulled this out of your suit jacket in the ambulance when they were undressing you. Handed it to me like it wasn’t an engagement ring, that knowing you, you’ve probably been carrying it around waiting for the right moment for weeks.” Greg wipes away a tear with the back of his hand.

“Months.” Mycroft whispers.

Greg whimpers, eyes full of tears as he meets Mycroft’s gaze. “I love you, Mycroft. I can’t wait to marry you.”

Mycroft’s hands shake as they take the ring box from Greg, opening it to reveal a plain silver band. “I love you.” His voice is still rough, throat sore, but the happiness that rushes through him as Greg notices their initials engraved on the inside of the ring, as he helps Greg slide it onto his finger proves that this will be more than alright.

The Thames is still on his blacklist though.

The Seine though, the Seine is really something.

At sunset, arms wrapped around his husband as they’re carried down the river on their private boat. Ferries full of tourists have passed them by, but they have each other and their captain who’s been instructed to sail as slow as possible.

They watch the landmarks of Paris pass them by, in a comfortable silence full of warmth.

Mycroft rests his head on Greg’s shoulder, watching as they flow along with the current, how he and Greg are destined to go with the flow. The hope that this will be their forever.

Mycroft presses a kiss to Greg’s bare neck. “I dreamt of you.” He whispers, voice barely loud enough amongst the water and wind.

Greg tilts his head, “Hm, when?”

“All my life.” Mycroft breathes.

Greg turns around in Mycroft’s arms, coming face to face with him. Greg has that dreamy look in his eyes, one that tells Mycroft that he’s taken the other man off-guard.

“And you told me you weren’t the romantic one.” Greg’s smiling at him now.

“It’s true.” Mycroft promises.

“I know, darlin’. I know.” Greg leans in to kiss him softly, “And I’m glad I could be there for you.”

Mycroft had initially been taken aback by how welcoming Greg’s family had been to him. Greg’s mother and sister had shown nothing but kindness towards him, accepting him immediately. Greg’s sister Sarah had confided in him that she was overjoyed to see Greg in a loving relationship. She had worried too long about him working himself into the ground to try and distance himself from loneliness.

It was more of a challenge to learn about Katie, Greg’s niece. Greg had always been there like a father to her, and it took her a while to trust Mycroft.

Once Greg moved in with Mycroft, his guest room became Katie’s. She’d spend the night often. On days where her mum was off at conferences, when Greg had a few days off, and eventually just because she wished to.

It was Mycroft she came to when she was questioning her sexuality, somehow knowing that he’d listen objectively. When she wanted to study journalism, she asked him his opinions on various courses across the country, he provided her with a detailed pros and cons list for each course.

Mycroft had never imagined that he’d get along with Katie’s girlfriend Aoife quite so well.  
From the moment they’d been introduced, they always found something to talk about. A professional pianist with the BBC Symphony Orchestra had Mycroft, a mediocre player at best, fascinated. She even encouraged Mycroft to take up playing piano again, something Mycroft hadn’t done in years.

The joy he finds in playing is unexpected, the look on Greg’s face as he plays his composition called ‘ _Gregory_ ’ brings tears of happiness to Greg’s eyes.

So when Katie and Aoife get engaged, Mycroft takes them both and Greg for afternoon tea in one of the restaurants in the Shard building.

As he drinks his earl grey tea with Greg’s hand on his thigh, sitting across from two women madly in love, as they look out at London beneath them; the Thames and Tower Bridge alight with life, Mycroft wonders how he became so lucky.

He wishes he could show his younger self this afternoon, show him the love that he shares with Greg, show him that he has a family now.

That he’s happy.

The water flows evenly, and Mycroft sits by the narrow stream in a garden chair, eyes closed as he listens to the familiar sounds around him.

Mycroft would be lying if he said that the spring behind the cottage wasn’t a factor in picking this cottage for their retirement.

Greg had become increasingly aware of the comfort that Mycroft gained from being near the water. Smaller streams seemed to be the ideal spots for his love.

“Made us some iced tea.” Greg’s voice brings Mycroft back to the present, opening his eyes he blinks against the sun. He smiles up at his husband who’s carrying a tray with two tall glasses and a book.

“You wonder.” Mycroft grins, watching intently as Greg places the tray down on the small garden table between their chairs.

Greg sits, letting out a sigh. His knees have been bothering him lately.

Mycroft watches as Greg covers himself with the blanket from the back of the chair that matches Mycroft’s and then he holds out his hand for Greg.

Greg’s hand is warm in his own, Mycroft squeezes back as much as he can with arthritis-ridden fingers.

“I love you, Gregory.”

Greg smiles back at him, the same smile from decades ago, roguish and kind. “I love you too.”

They sit in silence, watching the water flow.

“I wish I could tell the scared child I was that I’d get to retire with my husband and we’d be safe and content, and that we’d live by a stream.” Mycroft murmurs thoughtfully.

“Happily ever after, eh?”

“Exactly.” Mycroft whispers, tears of happiness sting his eyes.

Greg leans across the small space between them and kisses Mycroft’s cheek. “Read to me, darlin’?”

“Of course.” Mycroft says as he picks up Greg’s book of choice, unable to stop smiling.


	2. Gregory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings as before, though Sherlock's overdose is mentioned in slightly more detail in this chapter.

Name: Gregory

Origin: Greek

The name Gregory means _Vigilant, Watchful_ and is of Greek origin.

* * *

From a young age, Greg had been the estate’s peacekeeper. Younger kids with scraped knees would come to him, and he’d look after them. Those being bullied or teased by the older kids also found him, and he’d help them confront their bullies.

Instead of the teenagers attacking an eight year old, they came to respect him.

His mother used to joke that he was like a superhero. Upon asking her what his superpower was she told him it was kindness.

In school, Greg was an enthusiastic member of the football team, but he secretly enjoyed hiding away in the library.

His younger sister started school when Greg was nine, and he would meet with her at break time. He watched out for her valiantly, no harm or upset would come to her under his protection.

Sarah and Greg were close, even back on the estate Greg watched out for her.

He had his own small group of friends, and Greg’s mother often would tell him that his kindness would take him anywhere he wanted.

When Greg was thirteen, he came across a boy being beaten up by older lads. While Greg’s conflict resolutions up until now had come through words, they wouldn’t have heard him over the names they were calling the boy being beat up.

Greg jumped in, and with a stray punch here and there they eventually left, before too much attention was drawn to them.

They called Greg an array of names before they left, Greg didn’t care.

Greg sat on the ground by their victim, the boy had a split lip and bruising was already appearing around his right eye. He wouldn’t look directly at Greg.

“I’m Greg.” Greg started, a strange longing to hold the other boy was briefly entertained. “What’s your name?”

“Alex.”

Greg nodded, aware that Alex was embarrassed and upset. “I live near here.” Greg offered, “We have a first aid kit at home, can I help you with your lip?”

Greg’s mother arrived home from work that evening to her children and an unfamiliar boy with a black eye and split lip playing monopoly and laughing on the sitting room floor.

A year later, Greg sits beside Alex out in his back garden in an old tent that Greg’s mum had reluctantly allowed them to camp out in.

They sit in the doorway, looking up at the stars, seeing the frequent passing of airplanes.

“What they said about me was true.” Alex whispers, staring resolutely anywhere but at Greg.

Greg hums inquisitively, but he’s pretty sure he knows what Alex is talking about.

He’s been thinking a lot about it lately himself.

“The day we met...when they were calling me a queer, and worse.” Greg catches Alex’s gaze then, the other boy staring back at him in terror.

Greg smiles at him, no judgement. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” Greg murmurs, “How can loving someone be wrong?”

He watches some of the tension fall from Alex’s shoulders. “You’re not going to-“

“No.” Greg whispers, “‘Course not.”

The silence between them is full of meaning, understanding.

“Can I...?” Alex breathes, eyes wide and attentive on Greg’s face, glancing at his lips.

“Please.” Greg says softly, heart thumping in his ears.

And just like that, Greg has his first kiss.

He holds Alex through the night, makes countless promises that they’ll be alright, that there’s nothing wrong with them. Watches over Alex while he sleeps; hopes there’s a bright future for them both where safety and love await.

A month later, Greg’s heart breaks as Alex tells him that he and his parents are moving to Manchester.

“I won’t have you to fight off the bullies.”

Greg feels like his heart is in his throat; he can’t reply.

There’s no way they’ll be able to have private phone calls, talk the way that they can in person.

Options run through Greg’s mind, letters could easily be read by others.

Alex’s hand is warm on top of Greg’s own. “I’ll miss you.”

A sob escapes from Greg, loud amongst their quiet conversation. Alex holds him in his arms for the last time, presses a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll never forget you.”

This is the first time that someone takes on Greg’s caring role, but Greg feels too broken to realise.

“You need to start thinking about university.” Greg’s mum says casually one night over dinner when he’s sixteen.

They both know that his grades aren’t the best. He manages, but he’s not going to be a doctor.

Greg shrugs, “I just want to help people.” He admits.

The look he receives from his mum is full of pride. “A doctor?”

“With my grades?” He jokes.

“We could get you a tutor.”

“We can’t afford that.” Greg says softly. _We can’t afford uni either_ he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“We could manage.”

Greg shakes his head, “Think Sarah’s gonna be the doctor in this family, am I right, sis?”

Sarah laughs, but there’s hope in her eyes. “As if.”

Greg sees a look of relief on his mum’s face at the change of subject, and he understands.

“Nah, can see it now. Doctor Sarah Lestrade.” Greg grins, she is the one with the brains anyway.

Sarah rolls her eyes but Greg holds out his hand, “Pinkie promise?”

She’s only a few years younger than him, still old enough to know that their mum isn’t going to be able to pay for med school, and it’s reflected in her eyes.

Greg keeps his hand out, “I’ll have a job by then, I’ll help pay.” He says as reassuringly as he can. “Anyway, you’ll be out there getting scholarships, yeah?”

Sarah nods determinately, “Pinkie promise.”

There’s a resounding silence in their sitting room, his mother is staring at him as though he’s disappointed her, it’s a first.

“The Met?” She asks in disbelief, “You’ll get killed, Greg.”

“I want to help.” He whispers.“They’ll pay for me to go to uni.”

“And study what?”

“Criminology.” He stares down at his feet, “It’s my only option.”

“Christ, Greg. There are loans, you can still go to university, study social care or anything else.”

Greg shakes his head, “I’ve made my decision.”

His mum looks bereft. Greg’s chest hurts, he crosses the room and wraps his arms around her.

“I’ll be fine.” He whispers. “I promise.”

She buries her head on his shoulder, holding him close. “Don’t let them make you unkind, Greg. Please don’t let them take that away from you.”

“I won’t.” He promises. “I can work my way up, make a difference. Be there for you and Sarah.”

Greg returns to his flat on the first of November, having had to deal with the Halloween night shift. His whole body aches with tiredness. He opens his door, and is surprised to see Sarah asleep on his sofa, covered in Greg’s duvet.

She shifts as he closes the door quietly, he’d given her a key when he’d moved in, but she’d never used it until now.

He goes to flick on the kettle, something tells him he’ll need a coffee for whatever’s coming.

She’s halfway through her first semester of med school, full scholarship. He knows she should be leaving for lectures in an hour or two.

When he returns from his shower, she’s sitting up, wrapped up in his duvet. The tea he had left for her is half empty. Her eyes are bloodshot, and Greg immediately knows she’s been crying.

“I’m pregnant, Greg.” She whispers, tears pouring down her face again.

Greg is immediately by her side, “I’m with you, whatever you choose, alright? We’ll make it work.”

And that’s how he moves apartments, gets Sarah to move in with him.

He helps her with uni, makes sure she has a balanced diet and support. It’s how he becomes the uncle of an adorable niece.

Greg comes through on his promise. Whenever he’s not at work, he looks after Katie. He makes sure Sarah can continue with her studies, their mum often visits.

Greg barely has time to think, but he’s happy. He’s already been promoted to sergeant, he watches Katie take her first steps, watches her first words. He’s there when Sarah graduates top of her year. He’s there to help her move into her own flat, to babysit, to judge her new boyfriend who despite it all, seems decent enough.

He watches Sarah get a residency in St Bart’s.

Greg’s life changes the night a tall, gaunt man who is high as fuck stumbles across the crime scene tape and explains everything about the murder that’s just taken place. Tells him the culprit, tells him the motivation, and even calls him an idiot. Before Greg can reply, the man stumbles off and disappears.

He’s very tempted to let it go and ignore every word said, after all the man was clearly off his tits. But he looked into some of the more coherent statements the man had made, and he had been right. They’d caught the culprit in half the time it would have taken without the man’s suggestions.

Greg doesn’t know where to begin to search for the man; he clearly had nothing to do with the crime itself, but how on earth had he known all the solutions?

Greg finds himself looking out for the man at crime scenes for the man for the next month, but there is never any sign of him.

Eventually the man fades from his mind, and Greg continues with his life. He solves crimes, he spends his week off with his niece and sister, and doesn’t think of the man again.

“Frankly, I don’t know how you lot solve any crimes at this rate.”

Greg jumps, startled and very nearly chokes on the piece of croissant he had been eating at the unexpected voice right by his ear.

“Wha-“ Greg turns his head in the direction of the voice, but already the man has moved to sit down across from him, the two of them the only ones left in this clearly failing café.

The coffee is atrocious but it’s quiet here, and Greg needed to get away from the crime scene for a few seconds of peace. This is his first major case as a DI and the pressure of solving it rapidly and effectively has given him a permanent headache.

It’s him.

It must be what? Six months?

He’s pale and gaunt, curly hair in disarray and his pupils tellingly far too large for him to be clean.

“What’s your name?” Greg asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Sherlock Holmes. Now, do you want to solve this murder or not?”

Greg shifts in his seat, “Why would I trust you? You’re clearly high.”

“Solved that murder a few months ago for you, didn’t I?”

Greg sighs, finishing off his coffee to give him a few seconds to think. “I can’t let you onto a scene when you’re like this.” Greg says evenly, “If you get clean,” Greg starts, ignoring the dramatic sigh from the other man, “We could figure out something. But not until you’re clean.”

“I’ll tell you what I know from just hearing about what happened.”

Greg nods, taking out a notepad from his coat pocket. “Sure. Then you’ll come home with me, yeah?”

Sherlock blinks at him as though he’s said something incoherent, then his expression hardens. “A lonely, touch-starved, closeted bisexual? What, you think just because I’m high that I’m going to fall into bed with you? You let me sol-“

“Shut up, Sherlock.” Greg’s voice is harsher than he intends; Sherlock’s words sting, “You need to eat, and somewhere to sleep and come down off whatever you’ve taken. You can have my sofa. No ulterior motives.”

Having another person in his flat is odd, to say the least.

Sherlock refuses to tell him where he lives, which reinforces Greg’s guess that he’s homeless. The man is worryingly thin once his coat has been discarded. Greg orders takeaway and tells Sherlock to go shower, handing him clothes that will no doubt be too short for him, while he goes to throw Sherlock’s clothes into the washing machine.

Greg wonders what the hell he’s doing by inviting a junkie into his home, Sherlock may be some sort of genius but it certainly wouldn’t stop him murdering Greg or robbing him of anything valuable he owns during the night and disappearing.

But he wants to help.

That’s what it always comes down to for him, isn’t it?

Sherlock had been staying with him for a fortnight before it happened.

The man had muttered about ‘Big Brother’ and how Greg was likely to be taken away for questioning at some point, but Greg had no idea what to do about it.

Perhaps he was becoming paranoid, but he was certain some CCTV cameras moved to follow him.

But Sherlock was clean, and surely that should be enough?

So when Greg was dragged away from his car in the lashing rain on a Tuesday evening, he was unable to fight back. He was exhausted, and drained and hell, if he had to meet Sherlock’s evil brother at some point, they might as well take him while he’s useless.

The woman who had bundled him into the idling black car sits beside him, immersed in her phone. She’s a hell of a lot stronger than she appears, she doesn’t acknowledge him, and Greg takes the silence as an opportunity to arrange his thoughts as London blurs by.

What he had heard of Sherlock’s brother- Mycroft - had most likely been highly exaggerated to an unbelievable degree.

Sure, the man clearly had access to all CCTV cameras around London and a job that made him (supposedly) more powerful than the whole parliament put together, but Greg didn’t find himself quaking at the thought of being summoned, or abducted as it had happened.

Instead he was curious, nervous excitement filled his chest.

In one of Sherlock’s many rants over the last fortnight, he had discovered that Mycroft had superior deduction powers to Sherlock, and for Sherlock to admit such a thing was profound to say the least.

No, Greg wanted to meet this powerful man who cared about his brother despite the utter rejection and loathing he must receive from him in return.

In fairness, Greg had hoped he was being whisked away to some fancy office, maybe a nice dinner to the Ritz. He did not expect to be brought to a dilapidated warehouse that was flooded by the Thames after a day of rain.

The woman who had fetched him nudges him out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him.

Greg closes his eyes, trying to ignore the feeling of his feet slowly being soaked.

There’s no sound around him except for the quiet hum of the car engine. He’s surprised the car stayed and that he wasn’t just abandoned here.

At the even click of heels against concrete, even and distinguished steps, Greg glances up, narrowing his eyes and trying to see in the muted light.

Mycroft’s shadow comes into focus, and Greg forgets how to breathe.

Impeccable posture, glorious three piece suit, stern eyes.  
Greg sees through the man immediately.

Greg also knows that he’s smitten, before he even hears the man speak. Suddenly, his soaked feet don’t even come into the equation.

“Mycroft.” He breathes, loud enough for Mycroft to hear.

He sees surprise in the raised brow that Greg has spoken first, that Greg knows exactly who he is, and what’s more; that Greg immediately sees the man behind the act.

Watching Mycroft as he sleeps is especially intimate.

Greg adores the man, every single atom that makes Mycroft is loved by Greg. He can only thank the stars that Sherlock came across his path in order for him to meet Mycroft.

He’d said as much to Sherlock once and he hadn’t seen the man for a week.

There’s something about the way that Mycroft trusts him wholly to not hurt or betray him that makes Greg want to sing. He’d seen through Mycroft’s act immediately, but he had also been present in Mycroft’s company around others and the difference in him was so extreme that Greg thought he was hallucinating at first.

So, the sole fact that Mycroft trusts him enough to see beyond the Antarctic persona is as great as any ‘I love you’.

Often, Greg finds sleep fleeting. In those lonely hours, he has Mycroft. He memorises how Mycroft looks in sleep, peaceful and soft. Greg’s there to tend to him when he has nightmares; they’re not as frequent as they were when they had started sleeping together, but Greg is there nevertheless.

Oftentimes, Greg is awake in time to see Mycroft awaken, and it’s glorious.

Greg could nearly cry at the look of recognition in Mycroft’s eyes when he realises Greg is there beside him, and Greg intends to be there always.

Sherlock is clean for the most part; he understands that going back to drugs will remove him from every single aspect of investigations.

There have been small relapses, danger nights. But Greg or Mycroft, or both of them have been there for Sherlock.

So it’s a punch in the gut one day when Greg turns up to Sherlock’s new flat on Baker Street unannounced with a new case that’s probably about an eight on Sherlock’s incoherent scale.

He lets himself in, and immediately becomes uneasy at the weary silence in the building.

He rushes up the stairs, and into Sherlock’s mess of a sitting room, only to find him on the floor unresponsive and barely breathing. An empty syringe sits near him.

Immediately Greg calls for an ambulance, before notifying Anthea knowing that Mycroft is on a conference call and thus unreachable. Then he sits and waits, holding Sherlock’s hand, covering him in a blanket for some warmth, measuring his pulse and making sure he keeps breathing.

Greg’s in tears in Sherlock’s private room, the sound of the life support machine his only company. The doctor’s words about how lucky Sherlock had been to survive this without any major complications don’t feel like a comfort to Greg.

He wonders what he had missed lately, how he’d failed to notice Sherlock struggling so badly.  
There had been no signs, everything had been going relatively smoothly.  
  
Cases where Sherlock was needed to consult were steady, but clearly Greg had failed in his duty of care. He’d been in hospitals with Sherlock before, hell he’d even gone to support meetings with the man, but it had never been this bad.

By the time Mycroft manages to arrive, Greg has cried enough. Their ability to communicate silently is a comfort.

They hold hands and wait.

Greg watches John Watson walk away from the crime scene with Sherlock, who’s still wearing a shock blanket. He bites his bottom lip almost painfully, at war with himself about whether he has done the right thing or not.

On one hand, they very nearly lost Sherlock again tonight. On the other, a serial killer is dead, but his murderer is now at large.

Or, Greg reminds himself, right there with Sherlock.

Despite what Sherlock may think, Greg is not an idiot. He knows very well what happened tonight, knows that he’s letting a killer get away.

Already over the last few days of this case, Greg has seen the change in Sherlock since John’s appearance.

But as is always the case with Sherlock, Greg’s afraid to get his hopes up too high.

“I think they suit one another.” The familiar voice is accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his arm.

Greg’s silent for a moment, still watching Sherlock and John disappear from view. “John saved Sherlock’s life tonight, perfect shot.”

“Mhm.” Mycroft hums, “Am I wrong to be grateful?”

Greg glances to Mycroft, meeting his intent gaze. “If you are, then I am too.” He whispers.

They won’t allow Greg to hold Mycroft’s hand, and Greg doesn’t realise he’s crying until one of the paramedics wraps him back up in a blanket. He’s soaked to the skin and shivering from the Thames.

But that’s not what concerns him; they’re trying to get Mycroft out of his sodden clothes.

Greg had been aware of Sherlock and Mycroft bickering by the embankment wall, but hadn’t been paying attention until he heard the shout and the crash of a body meeting water.

It took him barely a second to realise that Mycroft was no longer standing there before he was throwing off his own coat and suit jacket, kicking off his shoes and jumping in after him.

Mycroft can’t bloody swim well, and Sherlock is very aware of that fact.

He screams for Mycroft in the dark, he catches sight of Mycroft struggling in the water, by the time he gets to him, Mycroft’s already out of it.

He clings to him, he wishes he could rid Mycroft of his coat because it’s dragging him down.

Greg doesn’t really know who pulled them both from the water, but he refuses to leave Mycroft. He’s unconscious and has swallowed far too much of the Thames.

He shakes in his seat, so close to Mycroft but so, so far.

A box falls out of Mycroft’s suit jacket, it hits the floor of the ambulance and is handed to Greg without a second glance. He can barely open it with the tremors going through his arms.

The box is tarnished from the water, but when he opens it and sees the silver ring, Greg’s breathing stops, then stutters back to life.

He can see the engraving of their names on the inside of the ring, even through tear blurred eyes.

_He wants to marry me._

He looks across at Mycroft, silently begging him to pull through. He wouldn’t be able to talk now even if he tried.

Greg doesn’t sleep, he can’t. He refuses to take his eyes off Mycroft.

His own hospital bed is only metres away from Mycroft’s, but it’s still too far.

After the nurse starts to come in less often, Greg takes his chance to move to Mycroft’s side.

He keeps the ring box close to hand.

Resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, he closes his eyes. Rejoicing in Mycroft’s body heat; proof that he’s still alive, still here.

He feels the rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest, hears the shallow breathing. After a while he manages to tune out the heart monitor, it’s just the two of them.

Two different nurses and one doctor order him back to his bed. He goes, but he soon returns to Mycroft’s. He won’t leave him.

He’d had a distraught call from his sister and niece when they’d heard what had happened, and he tried to convince her that he was fine. In his opinion, he was. He was the lucky one.

Mycroft was the one to worry about.

He wanted to tell Sarah that he’s holding his engagement ring in his hands, that Mycroft has probably been carrying it around with him for weeks. That he’s going to marry the man, that he loves him so much that even the thought of losing him is unthinkable.

That Sherlock Holmes will never come anywhere near either of them again.

The revelation when Mycroft wakes, that he’s been carrying the ring around with him for months is almost earth-shattering for Greg.

How had he had no idea?

He’s so incredibly glad that Mycroft is awake and able to speak that he can’t help but to cry a little.

They’re engaged.

Greg stays by Mycroft’s side, refusing to go home once he’s discharged. The day he’s allowed to bring Mycroft back home, he sits by his side in the back of one of Mycroft’s cars, holding him close, kissing him softly.

At home, he lays Mycroft down on their bed, takes his time uncovering Mycroft’s body. Mouthing over every inch of skin, worshipping every part of him.

“I’d marry you a million times over, if I could.” Greg whispers into Mycroft’s ear as they lie curled up with each other.

Greg’s been there for every important moment of Katie’s life. He’s looked after her, and never fails to be proud of her. She’s stayed with him and Mycroft often and Mycroft adores her.

Sarah’s always been busy, but she’s an amazing mother and her and Greg had created a dynamic that worked between them. Sarah’s had boyfriends, but Greg has always been the constant father figure in Katie’s life.

Naturally he’s delighted for her when she announces her engagement to her long-term girlfriend Aoife. They’d been together since she was fifteen, she’s just turned twenty two.

So when Katie asks him and Mycroft over for dinner two months before the wedding, they go.

Mycroft and Aoife are hilarious together, their rapport never fails to astound Greg and Katie. Aoife plays piano with the BBC Symphony Orchestra, Mycroft as a piano player himself was immediately impressed.

Katie takes Greg’s hand across the table after dessert and asks him to walk her down the aisle.

Greg stares at her in complete disbelief. He glances to Mycroft, who gazes back with pride in his eyes.

“Me?” Greg whispers in shock.

“Of course. You’ve been more of a dad to me than an uncle. You’ve always been here for me and mum. You’ve always supported Aoife and I too. You’re one of the most important people in my life, of course I want you to walk me down the aisle.” She squeezes his hands as she watches him try and fail not to cry with happiness.  
“I’d be honoured, love.” He whispers, squeezing her hands back.

Katie doesn’t let go of him, but she nods at Aoife who reaches out for Mycroft’s hands.

Confusion is clear on his face, and Greg watches as Aoife asks Mycroft to play Wagner’s bridal chorus on piano while they walk down the aisle.

The one thing that bothers Greg about ageing is his worsening eyesight.

Sure, he can deal with the aches and pains, can cope with the arthritis. But his sight upsets him most. He wears glasses all the time now, lenses gradually thickening with every visit to the optician. He misses being able to watch Mycroft in the mornings, laying on his side facing the other man and getting lost in him as he sleeps.

Now he needs glasses to be able to see the details of his husband’s face. It shouldn’t distress him as much as it does, but he’s spent most of his life paying attention to details, to small and fleeting moments and it’s hard not to be able to do that now without glasses.

Mycroft is his rock, and in retirement they’re closer than ever, if that was even possible.

Mycroft reads out loud for him, they live in a cottage by a stream. Days are full of love, and Mycroft’s gentle voice. Greg closes his eyes and listens.

Life has been kind to him, Greg thinks as he holds Mycroft’s hand.

“I love you.” Greg whispers during the silence between chapters, turning his head towards Mycroft, he watches as Mycroft smiles back at him, _this,_ he thinks _, is everything._

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: @lostallsenseof1  
> tumblr: lostallsenseofcontrol
> 
> <3


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